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However, he was petty, vindictive, and accustomed to using the bureaucracy of MI6 to get what he wanted.
I figured he would try to fuck me over in some way.
I just had no idea how he would do it.
So I kept my eyes open.
After I quit, I spent the first several weeks going to places I’d visited with Lars.
St. James Park… some of the restaurants we’d gone to…
Occasionally, I even went to the hotel and rented the room he always stayed in.
I usually got drunk on alcohol from the mini bar, sat on the bed, stared out the window, and cried.
I considered trying to contact him but decided it was best to let it go.
No matter what else had happened, he had still refused to tell me who he’d been working for.
And as much as I hated to admit it, I feared Alistair might be right about Lars’s entanglements. The last thing I needed to do was get involved with a spy working for China.
Not only would it lead to more heartache, but Alistair was no doubt watching me… waiting for me to slip up so he could arrest me, charge me with espionage, and have me thrown in prison…
Unless I came back to him on my hands and knees.
Fuck that.
So I contented myself with getting drunk, reliving the past in a lonely hotel room…
And crying a lot.
As predicted, MI6 held my final paychecks for bullshit reasons – ‘pending the Legal Department’s review of the assault of the Director of Operations.’
Alistair was going to make me suffer as much as he could.
I had some savings, though not a tremendous amount. I was alright for a while.
However, it became clear after a month that I needed to start making money again. My mortgage wasn’t going to pay itself.
I made some discreet calls – inquiries about what position a former secret agent could aspire to –
Which is how I found out that Alistair had burned me.
As in, ‘torched my reputation.’
He’d put out the word that I was emotionally unstable, potentially mentally ill, violent, and ‘difficult.’
Fucking asshole.
It made me want to go track him down for Round Two and soundly beat him to a pulp. If I was going to be tarred and feathered, I might as well get the satisfaction of what I was being accused of.
But I decided to let that go, too, and find something else that suited me.
I just had no idea what it might be.
Since I had some free time on my hands, I went to see John Morris, my old Krav Maga instructor – the man who had changed the course of my life when he saved me as a teenager.
He was getting up there in years. He still owned the studio, but his son had taken over teaching the classes.
